


Empathy For The Devil

by HenryMercury



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Supernatural Season 5, Teen Wolf Post-Season 3A
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryMercury/pseuds/HenryMercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're far more principled than I am these days," Peter tells the devil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empathy For The Devil

Peter shouldn’t be surprised that his nephew, Scott and their pack have managed to completely miss the fact that the world is ending. The lot of them are so focused on their little relationships, and this little town, that they’ve failed to take note of little things like seals breaking left and right, demon storms, horsemen rising. Peter is especially disappointed in the Stilinski boy; he usually pieces things like this together—but Stiles has been too preoccupied with a few little human sacrifices in Beacon Hills to pay attention to the entire cities being emptied by the Croatoan virus and what they might signify. The presence of so many supernatural creatures in this town has largely kept the demons out (except for Deucalion, who was _literally_ a demon wolf, not that anybody else actually noticed) but the reactivation of the Nemeton’s power means that Lucifer will inevitably be drawn here sooner or later.

No-one here would recognise the devil if he stood up and punched them in the face.

Peter would—which is why it’s lucky Peter’s the one sitting in the diner when a group of demons enter. They must be higher-ups, because they actually keep to themselves, taking seats by the bar and ordering beers even though it’s nine in the morning. He can smell them, reeking of sulphur, but the rest of the diner’s occupants continue their brunches, happily oblivious. Peter considers leaving before things get messy, but decides he’d much rather watch.

Sure enough, another group of demons arrive before the first lot have even finished their drinks. With them, though, is something older and more powerful than a demon—more so even than a werewolf. Peter smells ozone and rotting flesh, and the singularly sweet scent of fear rolling off every demon in the room. The source of it all, a blond-haired man with sunken eyes and facial scarring that looks almost as bad as Peter’s after the fire, strolls in and, with the wave of a hand, condemns every person in the place to die.

The demon that lunges at Peter gets more than she’s expecting. She goes for his neck, evidently planning to snap it—as though that could kill him. He plunges first one clawed hand, then the other into her chest, feels he way the demon permeates the host body’s every organ and closes his fingers around the heart, holding the writhing smoke in there. The demon’s eyes flash black and wet as she opens her vessel’s mouth, tries to escape, but finds she can’t. It’s nice, the feeling of a heart stopping in his hands. It’s been too long since he made a nice messy kill.

Peter takes out twelve other demons before Lucifer takes notice of him. By that time everyone human is dead.

Another minute flick of the wrist and the demons are all hurrying out the door, leaving the blond man and Peter alone.

“It has been a long time since I saw one of your kind,” Lucifer says, strolling over to the bar and taking a seat next to Peter. “There are werewolves everywhere, certainly—but they are like rats, sullied half-breeds shifting nightly with no control over their changes, eating hearts and leaving bodies strewn around like common murderers. The true, pure werewolves my father took pride in, of old blood like the Hales... well, there are not a great deal of you left.”

Peter knows all of this, not that he’s ever had anyone agree with him. Talia had always reprimanded him when he suggested they travel around the country cleansing it of those contaminated bloodlines. It is awfully nice to find someone quite as ruthless as himself.

Not that he’s going to roll over, of course.

“Why do you care, _Lucifer_ , when you’re ending the world anyway?” Peter reaches over the bar to find the ingredients for a gin and tonic. It’s not classless day drinking if he won’t be affected by the alcohol.

“I am not ending the world. I am winning a war,” Lucifer says. He isn’t easy to read; his voice is a constant soft, cool threat, and his vessel is empty of a pulse. If Peter listens for it, all he can hear is the buzzing of the archangel’s grace.

“Winning indeed,” Peter raises a brow. “You must have made a breakthrough in your wooing of the Winchester boy, then, since the last reports I heard.”

Lucifer’s laugh is stony. “And what do you think you have to offer me, werewolf?”

Peter smirks. “Oh, I have many talents and much knowledge—but judging by the... _graveyardy_ edge to your vessel’s natural musk I think that what you need most of all is a body resilient enough to contain you.”

“It is true that you are strong,” Lucifer muses. “And you could heal.”

“Oh,” Peter brags, “death itself has proven no match for me.”

Lucifer doesn’t show it, but Peter knows the words must catch on him—firstly because he’s aware Lucifer is raising horsemen, Death being his next target; secondly, because the elusive Winchester brothers have also (though not by means as cunning as his) risen from the dead.

“Why, though, would you offer this to me?”

Peter’s glad Lucifer is finally realising that nobody but his stupid demons actually likes him very much—certainly not enough to simply _give_ him what he wants. In this moment, it’s almost like he’s speaking to a slightly more competent, uglier version of Derek.

People don’t just _offer_ help or kindnessto others; the currency of this world—and Peter knows it better than anyone—is deception and manipulation. Archangels are at a distinct disadvantage, what with needing permission to take their vessels; unauthorised mind control is so much more convenient.

“I could always use a little extra power,” Peter explains, “and I’d very much like to be in on the ground floor of a new, post-apocalyptic order, if you would allow me to assist you.”

“A title, then, that is your price?”

Peter smiles, because he’s winning and he loves to win.

“Your next move is binding Death, correct?” He doesn’t wait for confirmation, but Lucifer also doesn’t interrupt him with a denial. “In this town there is a young werewolf, a true alpha, named Scott McCall. I would ask that you make him one of your sacrifices—and I would ask that you let me feel his blood on my lips.”

“Power indeed,” Lucifer says. “If the boy is a true alpha, why should I not reach out to him instead of you?”

Peter laughs outright at that one. “He would never agree to help you. Scott is the sort of child who still refuses to kill his enemies.”

“And yet you would see him dead?”

“I find that it’s neither here nor there how nice the people I murder are,” Peter tells the devil. “You’re far more principled than I am, these days.”

“Very well,” says Lucifer. “I’m ready to leave this decaying vessel behind. I need only your explicit acceptance.”

“I suppose you do,” Peter downs the last sip of his gin, savouring the sway he holds over this the most infamous of archangels. He has every intention of continuing to exploit it. “Yes,” he says. “Do hurry up.”


End file.
